


Dyed in the Wool

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Christmas Fluff, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunning Plans, First Kiss, Holidays, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jumpers, M/M, Other, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, never too much David Tennant at Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Junkshop, I'm so grateful to have you to squee with over these idiots through daily dms and twitter flalilings. I hope you enjoy this silly, fluffy fic inspired by our obsession with David Tennant wearing fluffy jumpers. <3 In particular,this one.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 195





	Dyed in the Wool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [junkshopdisco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkshopdisco/gifts).



> Junkshop, I'm so grateful to have you to squee with over these idiots through daily dms and twitter flalilings. I hope you enjoy this silly, fluffy fic inspired by our obsession with David Tennant wearing fluffy jumpers. <3 In particular, [this one.](https://twitter.com/NoContextTen/status/1207983208261750784)

Crowley had never been fond of wool, as far as textiles were concerned. In Egypt and Mesopotamia, he’d favored cotton, in the 18th century, silk. Later, once humans invented polyester, denim, and rayon, he felt a demonic obligation to wear those fabrics exclusively. Wool was not only scratchy, it had the added ignominy of originating from sheep - far too cute and cuddly for Crowley’s tastes. Even once cashmere had grown in popularity, Crowley had resisted. It was a matter of principle by now. 

Of course, Aziraphale loved it. Especially in the winter, he favoured thick woolen jumpers: white, cream, and his atrocious tartan print. He loved wool scarves and wool gloves and wool socks. When they were in shops and there were such items on display, he would stroke them lovingly with a smile on his face, as though the clothing were sentient and might revel in his touch. Crowley watched, biting his lower lip, and kept his hands to himself. 

It was exactly one year and five months since the apocalypse that never was, and Aziraphale and Crowley had moved (temporarily? permanently? who really knew?) to the seaside, now inhabiting a small cottage just on the outskirts of Devils Dyke. Crowley had always loved this part of England. He’d been the one to inspire its name after being caught by a villager while digging up a rare type of sea grass for his collection. He’d stubbed his toe at the disturbance (which bloody hurt!), and frightened the silly woman with his true form for his trouble. He’d almost regretted it until the incident became local legend and he got a commendation from Hell for barely lifting a finger. 

All of that was in the past now. What was in the present was Crowley living with Aziraphale under one roof as friends. Companions. 

He had long since reconciled himself to the fact that Aziraphale would never be interested in pursuing a physical relationship in the human sense. Or, he had until they moved in together. Now, every companionable chat over a bottle of wine, every pleasant walk in the countryside, every trip to the shops for clotted cream and scones, every almost-not-quite-touch was driving Crowley out of his mind. 

He didn’t need sex. He wanted it, but he could live without it. What he couldn’t live without, he was beginning to see, was Aziraphale’s touch. 

He longed for those sturdy, square fingers to brush against his own as their arms swung together, and when they did on occasion, it only served to emphasize what he was missing. Every time Aziraphale nudged him out of the way when he was cooking or accidentally grazed his knee under the table, Crowley nearly went cross-eyed. It was never intentional, and it was never enough. However, he would take what he could get. 

Crowley didn’t suppose he could be blamed for going back on his anti-wool stance when he came up with his Cunning Plan. 

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said, looking up from his book when Crowley came down one morning wearing a black cashmere jumper with a zipper up the front. It was close enough to his usual jacket to allow him to retain some semblance of dignity. “You look very nice this morning.” 

Crowley went to the coffee pot and poured himself some, shrugging as nonchalantly as was possible. At least cashmere was made from goats and not sheep. Goats were demonic enough, he figured. Cradling his mug in two hands, he joined Aziraphale at the breakfast table, sitting close enough to touch, but far enough away so as not to appear too obvious. 

“Is that a new jumper?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley glanced down and shrugged once more for good measure. “Oh, this? Yeah.” 

“I’ve never seen you wearing one before.” 

“‘Sss been cold.” He took a sip of his coffee and looked out the window, feeling Aziraphale’s gaze intent upon him. The sky was grey, and clouds moving in from the east looked like snow, or at the very least a cold sleet. “And the humans around here wear nothing but. Figured I might as well try to blend in.” He wasn’t quite ready to admit he’d purchased it in a shop rather than magicking it into existence. But he knew Aziraphale preferred the feeling of real fabric to conjurations. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Has the chill been bothering you, my dear? This cottage is awfully drafty. I often forget you’re a snake at heart. Should we put on a fire?” 

Crowley, who had still not quite recovered his enjoyment of fire since the destruction of the bookshop, shook his head. “Nah, ‘m’fine. Unless you’d like one?” 

“You know me, my dear. I run hot.” 

Crowley, who knew from the unfortunately seldom touches how true that was, nodded. “Was thinking about taking a walk before it rains. You wanna come?” 

Aziraphale beamed. “Sounds lovely. I adore walking out before a storm. Let me just get my coat.” As he stood and passed behind Crowley’s chair, Crowley felt the subtle, yet unmistakable brush of fingers against his back. He froze, waiting to see what would happen next, but Aziraphale was already hurrying into the next room. Still, he hadn’t been able to resist touching the jumper—Crowley felt vindicated that the first stage of his plan had worked. 

He would have to up his game. 

The next jumper was a dark emerald green. Crowley actually quite liked the way it felt against his skin—humans had made much progress with softening the coarse fibers to make them wearable. It looked rather nice with his jeans and snakeskin boots, he thought. Casual enough to appear effortless but noticeable enough to draw the angel’s attention—and his curious fingers. Or so Crowley hoped. 

They had plans to go into town for lunch at Aziraphale’s favorite brasserie, which served a moules frites the angel had rhapsodized over for nearly a week after their last visit. Crowley slicked his hands through his hair and gave himself one final glance in the mirror. He was pleased with his reflection, though he sometimes wondered what Aziraphale thought of his skinny frame and gangly limbs. The jumper fit him well, miracled to fit his body while providing a layer of softness to blunt his sharp angles. Perhaps it would provide the incentive Aziraphale needed. 

Both of them kept a personal room on the second floor of the cottage; Aziraphale used his mostly as a library, Crowley his as a more traditional bedroom. As Crowley strode from his room, he just barely missed colliding with the angel, who was coming out of his door. 

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale said, obviously flustered. “You startled me.” 

As always, Aziraphale wore his tartan bow tie and soft velvet vest. His jacket was snugger around his middle these days, evidence of the more relaxed atmosphere of their post-apocalypse sojourn. It pleased Crowley to no end that his angel was now free to indulge as he pleased without fear of being fat-shamed by Gabriel.

Aziraphale looked him up and down. “Another jumper, I see.” The tone of his voice was appreciative in a way that made Crowley’s toes curl. “It’s a lovely colour on you.” 

Crowley stopped the molecules in his blood from moving. He wasn’t about to blush like a virgin on their bloody stairwell over a mere compliment. 

“Ah, thanksss. Figured I might branch out a little.” 

“I see. And is this one cashmere too?” 

“A blend, I think,” Crowley said as dismissively as possible, which wasn’t very, he feared. 

Almost as if he were unable to help himself, Aziraphale reached out and touched the sleeve tentatively, his fingers playing lightly over the soft fabric. “Very nice quality.” His hand was warm even through the thick layer, and Crowley grit his teeth to stop from doing something truly embarrassing, like moaning or getting down on his knees to beg for more. 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said after another beat, withdrawing his hand to fiddle with his waistcoat buttons. “I . . . I should have asked.” 

“No. I mean, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly, and Crowley thrust his hands into his pockets and scuffed his shoes, breaking their gaze. All of this was a bit much, even given the fact he wanted it more than anything else in the world. 

“All right,” Aziraphale said. “Well, after you, my dear.” There was a gentle pressure on Crowley’s spine as Aziraphale guided him down the stairs. Crowley tried not to tumble down face first. 

All through lunch, there were casual touches. A gentle brush of crumbs off his shoulder, a warm squeeze as they laughed at an ancient, inside joke. Crowley was nearly drunk with it by the time they paid the check, and he’d only had two glasses of wine. He had never hoped for such a degree of success, but the softness of the jumper was truly impossible for Aziraphale to resist. 

Crowley took to wearing jumpers every day. And the touches kept happening with more and more frequency. Neither of them spoke about it—they were very used to not speaking about things, but now that the barrier seemed to have been removed, the touches became more and more intentional. Aziraphale would stroke his arm when he slouched downstairs for his morning cup of coffee; he would sit next to Crowley on the sofa while they listened to music, his hand playing over the soft fabric at his shoulder or his waist. He was full of praise for every weave, colour, and pattern, and Crowley was spending a small fortune on new jumpers, but it was worth every penny. That he hadn’t discorporated yet from sheer yearning was a miracle. 

Three days later was Christmas Eve. Crowley wasn’t normally one for human holidays—living through six thousand years of them was enough exposure to dull the shine. Added to this was the fact he had spent the majority of the twentieth century inspiring holiday pop songs so annoying he was almost ashamed to take credit for them. Paul McCartney had been particularly easy to influence. 

But things felt slightly different this year. Aziraphale, Crowley knew, had always loved the holiday season for the food alone. He was always swooning over things like spiced cider and eggnog and mincemeat pies and fancy boxed chocolates festooned in gold ribbon. He had even subtly decorated the cottage with candles in the window and a small tree with glittery white lights, under which was exactly one (1) wrapped gift, addressed to Crowley. 

They had never exchanged gifts before - not formally at least. The hundreds of small (and large) kindnesses done one another over the millenia had always been performed without comment, lest in acknowledgement something more meaningful, and dangerous, was given away. 

He wanted to do something meaningful and dangerous now. 

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale said, calling from out in the back garden, where he’d been fixing the fairy lights that had fallen in a windstorm the night before. “You absolutely must come outside to see the stars. It’s such a clear night.” 

“Be right there, angel,” Crowley said, with one last glance at the little tree. 

Outside, the inky winter sky was resplendent with stars - constellations that were familiar in such an intimate way, from Orion to Aldebaran to Taurus and the Pleiades. That last had been his final creation before being cast down. Perhaps that was why he had made them so bright to the human eye; maybe he had known on some subconscious level that it was the last time. 

Crowley shivered slightly, remembering, and Aziraphale stepped closer without speaking, wrapping an arm around Crowley as he did. It was the most intimate touch they’d ever shared, and he wasn’t even wearing a jumper this time. There was no excuse, no plausible deniability. 

“Which ones were yours, my dear?” Aziraphale asked quietly. 

“All of them.” 

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, his arm tightening. “Oh.” 

The lights Aziraphale had hung on the garden fence twinkled and glittered, and his expression changed from surprise to wonder. He was so beautiful. Crowley shivered again, shifting closer. 

“You’re trembling, my dear. Are you cold?” 

“No, not cold.“

“Something else, then.” 

“It’s—it’s just how I react when you touch me, I guess.” 

Aziraphale blinked, looking as though he’d been struck. “I thought you liked—”

“I do. I _really_ do.” 

“I never knew you wanted me to, before,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could see his flush even in the darkness. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to.” 

“I’ve always wanted to.” 

“Well, isn’t that ironic.” 

“We’ve both been quite foolish, it seems.” 

Crowley turned, and Aziraphale’s face was so close, lips slightly parted, pink and tempting. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, holding him for the first time. 

“I didn’t get you a gift, angel. I—”

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale said. “That’s all I want. Please.” 

Crowley lowered his head and brushed his lips against Aziraphale’s, feeling the heat of his breath. He was tentative only because he had never expected this moment and was still surprised it was happening at all. Aziraphale’s mouth was soft, but he was not as hesitant. He tugged Crowley closer, going up on his tiptoes to press their lips more firmly together. Crowley shuddered at the contact, his heart beating wildly in his chest, and he turned his head as the kiss transformed, growing passionate. 

All he could think was _Aziraphale, Aziraphale_ as it went on and on, the cold winter night and the stars forgotten. Aziraphale was warm in his arms, and alive, and nothing else mattered. 

They broke apart, both panting and flushed, and stared at one another. Aziraphale was smiling his soft, secret smile, the one that Crowley loved. “My darling,” he said with kiss-bitten lips. “Shall we go inside? I do believe you have a rather comfortable bed we might use?” 

Crowley was dumbstruck. “Uh. Yeah. If you want to, I would—that soundssss—” His mind felt like it was short-circuiting. 

Aziraphale gave his hand a pat and then tugged it gently. “Come along then, dear.” 

In the morning, Crowley woke up with an armful of warm, naked angel. He pinched his arm, hard, just to check if he was dreaming, but as memories of the night before came flooding back, he realised not even his wildest fantasies lived up to the real thing. Crowley had an active imagination, but it had always stopped short of envisioning Aziraphale bending him over his own bed and having him so thoroughly he could still feel the—

“Happy Christmas,” said Aziraphale, kissing him softly. 

“Ngk.” 

“Would you like to open your present?” Aziraphale sat up, the dark sheets swathing his curvy hips. There were red love bites on his shoulders, a dark bruise sucked into the plush skin at the back of his neck. Crowley watched, throat dry, as he reached for the tartan robe hanging precariously from the end of the bed and shrugged it on. 

“I—sure. Let me find my—oh yeah.” He snapped to miracle his clothes back from wherever he’d vanished them to the night before. “Just please tell me it’s not a jumper.” 

It was a jumper. A soft white jumper with black stars, so fuzzy it almost felt like being encased in marshmallow fluff. Crowley frowned at it. White was going a bit too far, but he supposed he could wear it this once for his angel. 

Aziraphale looked very proud of himself. He reached over and rubbed his hands up and down Crowley’s fluffy chest, lingering on the swell of his pecs. All perfectly innocent, save for the rub of his thumbs over Crowley’s hardening nipples. “Oh, it’s simply perfect. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you wearing this.” 

Crowley groaned as the angel straddled his waist and continued petting him, a beatific smile on his face. Perhaps he could suffer the indignity a bit longer.


End file.
